Like pretty much everywhere on the face of the earth, it’s been hideously hot in Ohio for the last week. So, in an effort to beat the heat, we went to our local water park over the weekend. This was smart for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being A) the temperature is always 20 degrees hotter inside the gates of an amusement park than outside; B) the concrete had soaked up every bit of the heat and was like walking on fire; and C) everyone else in southwestern Ohio had the same bright idea.
Not that I’m bitter.
But the best part is that it was slightly overcast while we were there and, in an effort to not leave as the whitest person in attendance, I decided to forgo sunscreen.
BAD MOVE.
I am so burnt. Those are not my actual legs pictured above (mine are just as red but slightly less hairy) but take that image and apply it to my entire body and that should give you a good idea of what I’ve got going on.
And it’s making me mad. Seeing as how my skin tone is akin to copier paper, I have had a number of bad burns in my life. There was the time I thought putting on suntan oil at the beach was a good idea, and the time I spent a few days on the coast of Spain, not accounting for the fact that I was laying my beach towel directly on the equator. Burning is nothing new to me – but getting mad about it is. I think I am getting grumpy in my old age or something, because this time around any benefit I might eventually get from this scenario (as in possibly no longer being florescent) is vastly outweighed by the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable. And apparently at the ripe old age of 32, I’ve decided that comfort trumps all.
If you need me, I’ll be out shopping for zinc oxide and elastic waist pants.
